


Inspiration

by Ephemeral_Is_The_Light



Category: Lost Girl
Genre: F/M, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral_Is_The_Light/pseuds/Ephemeral_Is_The_Light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ideas, plots and prompts for Kenzi/Dyson fics. On the off chance my insanity sparks another's imagination, because there aren't enough of these being written.<br/>Overall Disclaimer: If I owned Lost Girl this wouldn't be called FANfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Urgent News

**Author's Note:**

> This "fic" is largely a collection of ideas for fiction of the Dyson/Kenzi variety. The chapters are not connected (if they are I'll leave a note) and anyone is welcome to spin off from what I write here. If anyone is inspired to write from these snippets I post, I'm glad. I'd also like to know because I'd love to read it!

Urgent News

 “D-man.”

Soft breathing. Steady rise and fall of leanly muscled chest.

“Dyson.”

Soft snuffle. Belly scratch. Resumed peaceful sleeping.

“Dy-son.”

Kenzi growled. Then she smirked. Queue heavy impact and loud scream.

“DYSON!”

A great deal of flailing, cursing, and waking up. Kenzi doubled over laughing.

“What the hell, Kenz?”

“Wakey, wakey Wolf-man.”

“You do know it’s my day off?”

“Yup!”

“And that it’s six in the morning?”

“Mhmm.”

“And that this is my loft? Wait, how did even you get in here?”

“Because I’m awesome like that!”

Dyson sits all the way up, the sheets pooling around his waist and a glare firmly fixed in place.

“Kenzi.”

It is a statement, a question, a warning, _and_ a demand: all at once. Dyson had talent.

“Ok, look, don’t shoot the messenger. I happened to overhear a certain something and figured you’d want to know, like, a-to-the-sap. So, being the loveable, helpful person that I am I ran my fine rear-end over here.”

Dyson sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine, just let me put some pants on.”

“Hey, no complaints over here!”

Dyson rolled his eyes, but he slid to the edge of the bed and grabbed the nearest pair of pants; pulling them up as he stood. Kenzi pouted a little, then grinned and bounced over to the coffee press.

“You have far too much energy for a little human this early in the morning.”

“Nah, I just drank a _lot_ of coffee.”

“Oh, joy.”

He braced himself against the edge of the counter and watched the petite, young woman dance around his kitchen.

“So, what was this urgent news?”


	2. Accidental Bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may actually spin off of this one myself, but feel free to write your own interpretation. I often have difficulty writing beyond small scenes so long connected fiction is difficult.

Accidental Bonding

The rapid thud of running feet echoed down the alley. Bo, Kenzi knew, was making her way through the building to her left and, if things worked out, Wolf-man was in-route to the small back alley cross-section she was headed for.

Clearing a trashcan Kenzi risked a look over her shoulder. With a yelp, she lunged forward and ran harder. Big, tall, and creepy was way too close for comfort.

Rounding the corner she barely had the time to realize there was a figure in the way before she crashed into them. It took a fraction of a second longer to realize she’d run into the nasty piece-of-work they’d been hunting for the last week; the Crazy Lady (fully deserving capital letters and a copyright) being much harder to pin down then they’d thought. It took a full second to feel the sharp pain in the junction where her neck met her shoulder and another three seconds before she was sent hurtling through the air.

Fortunately, for her, things had gone according to plan and the Dyson was there to catch her. She felt him tug on her shirt and vest so he could get his strong hand clamped over the wound the Crazy Lady had given her. His hand was large, and warm on her bare skin, and helped her get her bearings.

Then Bo was breaking through the back door and the three-pronged bladed thingy they’d had to barter away an old clock for was flying. Bo’s aim was perfect; the Crazy Lady was officially sealed away. Thank Fae.

Although the Bad Guy Laugh the Crazy Lady let loose before impact gave Kenzi shivers.

“Are you alright?” Bo was crouched next to them; her eyes fixed on D-man’s hand.

“Yeah, sure,” Kenzi one shoulder shrugged.

“I’m not sure that the Tyari didn’t hit something major in her neck,” Dyson stated.

“We should get her to the Clinic,” Bo was already moving.

It took a surprising lack of time for Dyson to get her to the car; his hand still firmly in place.  He settled in the back next to her while Bo moved behind the wheel.

Kenzi wanted to complain because she felt fine. There was no pain, no weak feeling, and no nothing. Which was strange ‘cause she was pretty sure the Crazy Lady had jabbed a finger into her neck. Huh.

Maybe they should go to the Clinic.

Timing her movements to Dyson’s to get out of the car was a bit awkward, but they managed without loosening his grip. He insisted on carrying her, which was just as awkward but manageable. They got her settled on one of those funky hospitable beds and spread a bunch of weird doctor objects around her.

“Now,” Lauren said, “I’m going to have Dyson remove his hand. Depending on the damage, I may have to clamp on a major blood vessel. It will hurt, but I need you to try to hold as still as possible. Alright?”

“Okay,” Kenzi said. What else was she supposed to say?

“On three. One. Two. Three,” and D-man pulls his hand back fast and gets out the way. Lauren moves forward, a metal thingy that looks like tongs in her hand. Then everyone just stops.

Kenzi blinks a few times.

“Well, what’s the damage Doc?” She asks just to break the silence.

“There isn’t any…” Lauren trails off. Tilting her head.

Dyson moves closer grabbing her collar to show where she’d been hit. Kenzi can see that there is blood on his fingers, but nowhere’s near as much as there should be.

“There’s a mark,” he declares, voice dark and solemn.

“Uh, oh.” Kenzi sums up.

A few days and many hours of research later she is sitting in Trick’s lair.  Trick has a book open in his hands standing by the desk. D-man has fetched up against the wall by the door  with Hale just a few steps away and Bo paces the small area along the bookshelves. Dr. Hot-Pants sits in a chair, having given up trying to get Bo to settle.

“Alright, first I need to ask a question. I need to know who was the first person to have skin to skin contact with Kenzi after she got hurt,” Trick, sounding very serious.

“I was,” Dyson says.

“Ah,” Trick voices, “I was afraid of that.”

“What, why?” Kenzi yelps. She didn’t want to be a reason the Wolf-man got hurt. D’s expression didn’t shift.

“Because,” Trick starts, “his is the only nature that would complicate the spell.”

“Well, what sort of spell is it?” Bo demands.

“It’s a binding spell.”


	3. That Sweet Scent

That Sweet Scent

Waking up to the soft beeping of the alarm on her phone, Kenzi did what she did every day. She rolled out of bed (was around noon-ish) and stumbled to the kitchen to get some cereal or cold pizza for breakfast. Then she took a shower.

After that is when things took a turn for the bizarre.

Finished, she wrapped a towel around herself and opened the door fully intending to make a dash for her room. This was hampered by the six-foot-four wolf-man standing just on the other side. 

“Hey D-man, didn’t know you were here. Sorry for holdin’ up the bathroom, I’ll just be…”

…Not going anywhere. His firm grip was on her shoulders, pushing her into the wall.

“Hey, Wolf-boy this is not-”

-And she yelped because Dyson—stoic, cop, besties on again-off again, and friend Dyson—had just buried his face in her neck. She could feel the strong, heavy breath he took that briefly pressed her chest flat against his. She could also feel something a bit further south.

“Oh, holy flying mother of bats, D…is that? Oh sweet Honey Oats, what are you doing?”

He was growling. Like, growling right against her. She could feel the vibrations on her neck and chest. Moreover, if she were honest, she felt them somewhere else altogether. The heat that flooded her body preceded a flood elsewhere.

Then there was a large, calloused hand working its fingers between her thighs and she was desperately clutching his shoulders, stammering out half-formed barely-coherent blather because, “Oh god, oh god, Dyson!”

His lips, and teeth, and tongue explored the curve of her neck and shoulder. His arm had shifted to her waist, easily lifting her off her feet allowing his wandering hand greater access. Her eyes were rolling into the back of her head and she could feel the rising crest of the mother-of-all-orgasms building just out of reach. 

The pleasure is so intense she hardly notices the stinging pain of his teeth breaking skin. 

Then the wave crashes over her, and before she can even begin to come down something pries she and Dyson apart. It takes a moment to realize it is Bo, with her arm around Kenzi’s waist and she’s yelling. When Kenzi looks up it’s into wolf-yellow eyes and a blood smeared mouth.

~:~:~:~Dal Riata~:~:~:~

“So, what exactly happened,” Trick asks?

“Well, I did the whole usual waking up routine: get up, food, shower. Then when I opened the bathroom door D-man was right outside. I didn’t know he was there—in the clubhouse, I mean—so I just figured he’d come to see Bo and needed a pit-stop. Therefore, I was all, like, hey, let me get out your way. Then he went all grab me up against the wall, sniff my neck, growl, and bite me,” Kenzi shrugs. She was very careful to leave out the hand-beneath-the-towel part. She didn’t know if Bo noticed and truth-be-told she was desperately hoping that was a not-at-all.  
  
“The bite is incredibly superficial,” Lauren interjected, “especially considering what Dyson is capable of. In fact, it looks as if he only bit hard enough to break the skin. There isn’t really any muscle damage.”

“But what would make Dyson, of all people, go after Kenzi? And why so little damage? I mean, he could have ripped her throat out, but when I pulled them apart he seemed to be trying not to hurt her.” Bo gestured.

“You said he sniffed your neck before he bit you?” Trick pressed.

“Yeah, pressed his whole face right into my neck and did that deep, wolfy scenting breath thing,” Kenzi clarified.

“So, you’re thinking that whatever triggered D, is in Kenzi’s scent?” Hale asked.

“It is very likely, and the shower would have warmed her body temperature and made her scent stronger,” Trick pointed out. “Also, as a wolf, Dyson is very susceptible to scent based spells.”

“Scent based spells? Like, what are we talking here?” Kenzi broke in.

“I mean, that there are spells that take something personal—blood, or hair—and use it to alter that persons scent to cause various outward effects. In essence, change your personal scent to trigger a reaction in Dyson—or, Fae like Dyson.”

“Wait, so you’re saying that any super-sniffer is going to want to put teeth marks in me?” Kenzi freaked. 

“Maybe, but it could be that Dyson was targeted specifically. These spells are very versatile.”


	4. Freudian Texting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came from reading Damn You Autocorrect, so I hope that explains everything

Freudian Texting

The first time it happened, Dyson had been at work. His phone went off, and glancing at the screen, Kenzi’s name above the little text icon. Flipping it open, he read:

Kenzi: Hey, D-man, want to make-out tonight?

He blinked, closed and re-opened the message just to make sure. Yes, it still said what he thought it said. Caught off guard, he answered:

Dyson: Make-out?

It took a few minutes before:

Kenzi: Oh, God. Sorry! My phone autocorrected, I meant HANG-out!

Dyson was inclined to believe her, after all, Kenzi might say she’s Team Dyson, but he’d always gotten the impression it was for Bo’s sake.

Dyson: Okay, it’s fine. Did you mean the Dal or the Clubhouse?

The second time it happens, he’s at home—the familiar rhythm of his fists against the worn-leather of the punching bag a soothing refrain. His phone goes off and vibrates right off the counter. Grunting in annoyance, he grabs it.

Kenzi: I’m so hard up right now, want to come get me off?

Dyson nearly dropped his phone. If he were honest, it was more a text he’d expect from Bo.

Dyson: Kenzi?

Kenzi: Yeah, who else? Lol

Dyson: re-read your text.

Kenzi: :-0 Epic fail! I swear I meant I’m so HUNGRY, will you come get ME!

Kenzi: I thought we could visit Trick and snag a bit of stew…

Dyson, stares at his phone a moment. Then he shrugs and shakes his head.

Dyson: Sure, give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there.

The third time it happens, he’s in a meeting so his phone is on vibrate. He slips it out of his pocket and flips it open under the table.

Kenzi: I’m thinking awesome red lace panties and matching bra, want a picture?

Dyson’s mind easily and immediately conjured an image of the lithe, young woman in nothing but her underclothes. The uncomfortable tightness in his jeans and the sudden flicking on of a projector light brought him back to the present.

Dyson: Kenzi, I’m in a meeting.

Kenzi: Ah! Sorry, sorry, it was meant for Bo!

Dyson wasn’t so sure he believed her, but he was willing to let it slide.

The fourth time it happens they’re both at the Dal, he’s playing pool and she’s at the bar talking to Trick. He’s lining up a shot when his phone goes off.  He misses, and with a sigh, he backs up and grabs it out of his pocket.

Kenzi: want me to give you oral?

Dyson doesn’t even hesitate, he stalks straight to the young woman and shoves his phone under her nose. He watches her eyes go wide, and she sputters, “I meant: do you want me to get you another! Another beer! Beer I say!”

He gives her a doubtful look, but he lets it go anyway. Trick gives him a look but he shakes his head and says he doesn’t want to know. Then Trick sets up two beers on the bar and Dyson takes them back to the pool table.

The fifth time it happens he’s driving, intending to head home for a shower and maybe hit the Dal up for food that hadn’t seen a microwave. His phone goes off and it takes him a minute to fish it out of his pocket.

Kenzi: I want you.

Dyson doesn’t even spare it a second thought. He’s sure she has some excuse, something else she’d meant to say, but the thought had been bouncing around in his head since that first text. This time he did not intend to let it go.

It didn’t take all that long to pull-up to the clubhouse and make his way to the door. He knocks and hears a shout of “Just a sec!” and then she’s answering the door—in a pair of tiny shorts and a sports bra with a robe thrown haphazardly over it. He barely gives her time to blink up at him before he’s pushing his way in, shutting and locking the door firmly behind him.

“Hey, Kujo, what’s—“

He doesn’t let her finish her sentence before he presses his phone into her hand. He watches her read the text, sees the blush, and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick up and then away. She’s fumbling, trying to think up something to explain this one away too. Dyson isn’t buying it.

Instead, he leans into her, trapping her between his larger frame and the wall.

“Clearly,” he grabs the phone out of her hands and shoves it into his jacket pocket, “you have something on your mind.” He shrugs off the jacket and tosses it over the nearest chair.

She’s wide eyed and speechless, and he considers that a win.

He places his hands: one on either side of her head. Then he leans in slow, ‘til he can feel her breath on his lips. “I think we should _get it off_ , don’t you?”

Then he catches her mouth with his, and there is little room for miscommunication. After all, he was _very_ good at communicating this way—just ask Kenzi.

 

 


	5. Indian Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: fans, or convenient snowbanks may be necessary. This chapter contains sexual situations. But this is LOST GIRL, you really should have expected that to pop up eventually (no pun intended). Enjoy!

Indian Summer

_“Noun: a period of mild, dry weather, usually accompanied by a hazy atmosphere, following a period of cold weather.”_

“Holy Fae, it is **cold**.” Kenzi shivered.

“It’s called winter, Kenzi,” Dyson snarked.

  The shipyard they were investigating had a steady, frigid wind rolling in off the water making a cold day that much colder. The fact the Sun was setting probably didn’t help much. Kenzi wrapped her arms tighter around herself as if that would somehow make the skirt, tank, and ripped jacket she was sporting warmer.

“I  hadn’t planned an evening in the shipyard, Wolf-man,” she bit back.

“More like an evening on your back,” Dyson sniped, giving her ensemble a once over.

“Don’t I wish. At least then I’d be warm,” she groaned stalking forward on her four inch heels and wishing for the umpteenth time she’d worn jeans instead of the adorable snakeskin mini that perfectly matched her new shoes.    

“Let’s just get this done and over,” Dyson sighed, eyes quickly diverting from her slender form.

“Why, exactly are we here again?” Kenzi gestured to the endless stack of crates around them dramatically.

“Smuggling and you said you’re good with locks,” he reminded her, becoming exasperated.

“Oh, yeah. So, how do we—Dyson!” Kenzi cried in alarm.

Turns out they weren’t as alone as they’d thought. Suddenly, what looked to be a dozen rough looking longshoremen (Kenzi had no idea if they were Fae or not) had surrounded them.

“Stay close,” Dyson warned, then all Fae broke loose and the fighting started.

~:~:~A few hours later~:~:~

“Is this close enough?” Kenzi grunted in frustration.

They’d lost—badly. The dozen guys had turned into a few dozen and low-and-behold all of them Fae. Fortunately, the goons hadn’t been interested in killing them, or a human snack. Unfortunately, said goons had decided to stuff them both into a crate that would’ve barely held Dyson, never mind adding Kenzi—slight as she was. The bad guys even had the foresight to tie them up.

Dyson growled at her and she could feel it reverberate through her bones.  

Oh, she forgot to mention the _position_. Kenzi’s bare thighs chafed against the denim of Dyson’s jeans from where they’d been tied around his waist, and her arms strained from the awkward way they’d been tied around his neck. Her chest pressed flush against him. Dyson’s arms folded tightly against her sides due to his hands being tied behind her back, and his knees pushed into her ass while his head was forced down at an odd angle because the box was just that small.

For some reason, the goons had gagged Dyson. Kenzi wasn’t about to complain that they hadn’t gagged her: who knew where they had gotten those handkerchiefs? Eeew!

“Hey, at least I’m not cold anymore,” she tried for some optimism. It was the truth, though, cold was now the last thing on Kenzi’s mind. If she were honest she’d only been this close to Dyson in her dreams, and it was making her hot in a way she really hoped he couldn’t smell.

He nudged her forehead with his chin.

“What?” She wrinkled her nose at the strange feel of his whiskers scratching at her skin.

He did it a few more times, until she tilted her head back to look up at him. There was a notch missing from the boards that allowed light to spill in, illuminating his eyes—a fathomless blue. Then he lowered his cloth-covered mouth to hers. 

“What the hell,” she sputtered. “Not cool D, what are you doing?”

It took a bit of grunting, and sort-of gesturing before she got it… or at least she thought she did.

“You want me to… bite off your gag?” Kenzi asked: horrified. First, she’d seen troll hands that’d had looked cleaner than the rags they’d used and she didn’t want that bit of nasty anywhere near her mouth. Second, what he suggested seemed overly intimate— circumstances not withstanding — having her mouth so close to his. He just nodded, giving her a look.

“Fine, fine, just give me a sec, ok?”

Kenzi took a deep breath, gathering her courage before she leaned into him arching her back to reach his mouth.

The first time, she tried to grab the cloth with just the edge of her teeth, but when she tried to pull it slipped right out. The second time she must have grabbed skin—or whiskers—because he jerked away from her and smacked his head against the box.

“Oh, for the love of Fae,” she snapped at herself. This was awkward enough without her eff’ing it up. Down girl, bad word choice, bad-bad word choice. Take another deep, calming breath.

  The third time she pressed her face right into his and, using her lips, pulled enough of the cloth into her teeth to pull it down. Spitting it out, she tried to focus on her victory and not on where that piece of fabric might have been. ‘Cause it would take a lake of mouthwash before her teeth ever felt clean again. Ugh, grossness.

Her celebrating halted, however, when Dyson grunted at her. She had forgotten the cloth was still tied between his teeth and the balled up cloth behind that. Inwardly she freaked, ‘cause—Holy Shit, Batman! To get the cloth out of his mouth she’d have to—have to. Oh, my, God. She was going to have to practically stick her tongue down Dyson’s throat!

“Are you sure about this?” Kenzi stalled a bit edgy. “I’m going to have to get all up into your business.”

Dyson deliberately shifted his hips, then cocked an eyebrow at her managing to express haughty amusement while in the dark and gagged. Damn he was talented. This meant Kenzi had to retaliate. She bit his lip to get him to open his mouth and thrust her tongue forward. She had to tilt her head and seal their lips together to reach the gag. She tried desperately to ignore the distracting wet heat of his mouth, and the tingles that shot down her spine as she worked.

The gag was in the back of his mouth and she didn’t know how to bring it forward enough to get her teeth on it. Maybe if she hooked her tongue behind it? It was harder than she thought, she couldn’t seem to get her tongue behind the gag, and instead wound up stroking the ridges of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. She pulled away, panting and frustrated.

She looked up, intending to—she wasn’t sure. His mouth was dark and damp in the low light, his eyes closed. She watched his nostrils flare, the way he did when sniffing the air and he slowly opened his eyes; peering at her beneath his lashes. A wave of rolling heat wound through her and tightened in her belly; she swallowed hard, his taste thick on her tongue.

“I—I, um,” she fought to gather her scattered thoughts, “the gag is too far back. I was trying to get my tongue behind it to, you know, pull it forward.”

“I’m just going to, um, try again.” Kenzi swallowed her remaining dignity, and then licked her lips. His eyes followed the movement. 

She leaned forward again, and this time she parted his lips with her tongue. She could feel him trying to shift, to give her more room and once his tongue flexed against hers almost like a greeting. A helpless shudder stole through her. She was a little bolder, exploring the length of the strip of cloth and subsequently more of his mouth.

“Maybe if you try to help,” Kenzi panted as she came up for air.

  They tried again; Dyson parted her lips and coaxed her into him. They tangled together, pushing and twisting, all wet heat and slippery skin. Their success was limited, and they had to break for oxygen more than once. Kenzi found herself wondering how he wasn’t chocking, but she persisted and tried all the harder thinking—it would be a lousy way to go and she was a good friend.

But, Good Lord, she was on fire. Kenzi could feel her thighs get slippery and hear little beyond the blood roaring in her ears. Dazed, she thought: if this were how Dyson kissed bound and gagged it would probably be even better when they were free, if that were _even_ possible. ‘Cause this was pretty freakin’ hot. A moan rose spontaneously from her toes through her lips, and echoed in the tight confines of their wooden prison.

Needing air she pulled back, all too aware of the bulge pressed intimately against her leaving her dizzy with need. It occurred to her then that his jeans were soaked with her; that he could feel her heat. She wished mightily that her hands were free to grab hold of him—to grab hold of anything really. Reality was just an illusion, this couldn’t really be happening. It was too surreal.

“Do…you…think they’ll…find us?” Kenzi panted. Words, words were real.

She felt his muscles shift as he shrugged.  Focusing on her breathing, she went to bury her head in his chest but stopped short. She could see the strip of cloth across his cheek.

“If you tilt your head, could I try and grab the part of the gag across your cheek,” she thought aloud, tilting her head.

Dyson tucked his head into his shoulder in response. She tried to lean in, but the only thing she could reach was his jaw—his stubble tickling her lips. Thinking hard, she tried to wiggle and push with her thighs to get some leverage as her hands were uselessly tied behind his back. A moan tore through her involuntarily, as she rubbed all of herself against him, throwing her head back when the intensity of the sensation caught her off guard. Gasping for breath, she leaned forward again, and wrapped her lips and teeth around the cloth giving a firm tug. It took a bit of work, but finally it was gone. With a cough, Dyson spit the balled up bit out too.

The only sound in the tiny box was them—breathing.

“Kenzi,” his voice was rough with arousal.

“Yeah,” she tried to hide the shakiness in her voice.

“Do that again,” he demanded, eyes a lustrous wolf-yellow.

“Do,” her voice caught, “do what again?” Her bound hands became sticky with sweat at what his words implicated.

“Let’s start with your mouth,” he smiled wickedly, “and work our way down.”

“Oh, God,” she keened.

Their lips met free at last…


	6. Deny It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B-day fic for my Beta Yoeman.Prince (at least that is her name on ff) Happy B-day!

Deny It

Denial is a powerful thing.

It can render small acts nonexistent and hide an entire race of people.  It can keep people together and tear people apart. It can build a nation, or destroy an empire. It makes and it breaks. It’s almost a separate living entity; like a great, and terrible child given free reign over an unsuspecting world.

So. Yeah. Denial.

Isn’t the old saying, that “when all else fails: deny, deny, deny”?

Kenzi knew she was in denial. Knew it, but that didn’t mean she had to acknowledge it.

When the **truth** tried to take-over her dreams, she conveniently forgot them. When the **truth** attempted to invade her thoughts she shouted, laughed and drank it into submission. When the **truth** —the sneaky, conniving bastard that it was—blindsided her in those rare unguarded moments and tried to slip from her lips, she snatched the little fucker by the scruff of its neck and locked it away, far away where it belonged.

The truth is that the **truth** hurts and Kenzi was never into pain.

So…yeah, denial.

She denied she could feel him the moment he entered a room. She denied the way the sound of his voice made her shiver, like that first touch of warm water when stepping under the shower. She denied the way his touch made her skin feel too tight. She denied the way his laugh stole her sanity, the way his smile—so rare, sparkling like a diamond—stole her breath. She denied that by just being himself, he’d stolen her heart.

The truth is that the **truth** hurts, and this particular truth would hurt more than just her.

So. Yeah. Denial.

And she’d meant to keep it that way, her head buried so deep in the sand she forgot what the sky looked like. Funny, isn’t it, how the best of intentions still lead us all astray. Must be why they say, “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.” And she had the best of the best intentions at heart, but it wasn’t enough—and really, when was it ever?

It shouldn’t have happened, she’d been so—SO, careful. And who would make such a stupid trinket anyway?

This wasn’t like the Gorgon’s blood—back then she’d been attracted to him, yeah, but so wasn’t everybody. The wolf-man was _Hott_ and Kenzi wasn’t blind. Besides she’d been more upset with him at that point than anything, what with the rich fairy he’d been banging.

But like she said, that was then and this was the terrible, horrible present. This was now, after Ciara’s funeral, after the Berserkers, after the Norn and after the Garuda. Now, when he owned her. No matter, he had no idea. Or, at least, he hadn’t.

Then she’d gone and screwed it all up, and all because she’d seen something shiny. Occasionally her magpie tendencies frustrated even herself. At the time it had seemed harmless, just a length of thick cord dripping with pretty gem stones. She had thought it was maybe a belt, or some sort of fashion bit from a bygone era; they’d been in a Fae mansion so it was a perfectly reasonable idea.

How was she to know it was magic?

“Maybe this is all a bad dream,” she hoped desperately, and fought to deny the irony. She knew, though, that it wasn’t. The beginnings of a mark appearing around her wrist said otherwise. The mark appearing around Dyson’s neck—if the book she’d read was right—would say more than its fair share too.

Why would anyone want to share dreams? It was invasive, and intimate in a way that not even sharing their bodies could match. He knew she’d fucked up—again—but she had promised she’d fix it. Fortunately, they were of like mind to keep this quiet. Other than Trick—whose secrets had secrets—she and Dyson played their cards closest to the vest. Which left her “borrowing” from Trick’s stash of Fae literature.

The cord she’d picked up, according to one musty tome, was called the “Bruadair figheadair” or, for those English speaking folks, the “Dream weaver.” Not, apparently, to be confused with _a_ dream weaver—which was some kind of Fae. Another book she’d “appropriated” said that to activate the spell the user wrapped one end around their own hand, then the other end around the desired recipient’s neck. 

She had only been joking when she’d sauntered up to Dyson at the Dal, looped one end of the cord around his neck and declared, “Look, D-man, I found a pretty leash _just_ for you!” They’d shared a laugh, even as he rolled his eyes, and flicked the leather back at her. Now, every night, they shared a dream.

They were lucid dreams, meaning they were both very aware, but entirely helpless to control their actions. Instead they had front row seats watching themselves move through the dreamscapes. Sometimes the dreams were hers, other times his, but they always included the other—never mind that Kenzi hadn’t been alive for a millennia, or that Dyson had never lived on the streets.

Sometimes they had hot, heavy sex—and if Dyson was half as good in real life as he was in those dreams… wow, just wow. Occasionally, they were at war—in Scotland, usually. Sometimes, they were thieves—which she imagined was an entirely new experience for the old dog. Other times, nothing really made sense at all. And so far, they had managed to handle it. They had already swapped bodies, they shared secrets; they trusted each other. Not even the sex could shake them—sex was just sex after all. They both acknowledged it could have been much worse—Bo, or heaven forbid Lauren- _shudder_.

Everything had been going all right, nothing earth shaking had been exchanged and Kenzi was making progress—slowly, but still progress. She had actually begun to believe that she’d come out of this unscathed and things would be able to go back to normal, just as soon as she figured out how to break the connection. Really, she should have known better. Nothing is ever simple in Fae-land.

She’d only ever had the dream once before, and it was so unusual that she’d never expected it to repeat. In fact, she’d pretty much forgotten it. So, of course, **that** was the dream they had shared last night.

So much for denial!

~;~;~;~ Dreaming~;~;~;~

It feels so real, waking up in his arms. The blankets are warm, the bed is large, comfortable, and a fire crackles somewhere nearby. Opening her eyes she sees the bed stand and beyond that the wall of polished logs. Instinctively, she knows she is in the old, log cabin that was once her grandparent’s home. If she rolls over, behind Dyson will be a window framing the evergreen forest, which surrounds the mountains in this part of Russia.

Carefully, trying not to wake him, she slips from the bed. Turning she takes in the open second floor loft, that looks down into the living room below, Dyson sleeping peacefully one of his arms stretched across her side of the bed, the wooden dressers and tables, and the staircase leading down. Pushing her curly tresses over one shoulder, she tiptoes down the stairs barefoot. In the living room, the couch has been pulled out into a bed.

Moving closer, she sits on the edge. Wrapped in blankets and dreams, are two little boys. One a few years older than the other and nearly the spitting image of Dyson, except for the dark brown of his hair. The younger has Dyson’s blonde, but is more a mix of the both of them. Reaching out, she gently brushes a curl from her son’s eyes. Something warm, and heavy squeezes in her chest.

She is so caught up in the moment, unaware of the longing written so plainly on her face, she doesn’t hear Dyson come up beside her. It isn’t until he kneels, his side against her knees, and brushes his knuckles against their eldest son’s cheek, that she notices him. His blue eyes are soft in a way she has never seen before, and a simple gold band hugs the ring finger of his left hand. Absently, she twists the matching band around her own.

“Still plan on taking them hunting today?” the words fall from her lips, automatic and surreal.

“Caleb is old enough now, and Stephen has already planned out his brother’s first hunt,” Dyson looks up at her, amusement thick in his quiet tones.

“Oh,” she smiles back, “and just how many times does the gallant Stephen save the day?”

He chuckles, “more than a few, and certainly more than likely.”

“Hmm,” she tilts her head coyly, brushing her nose against his, “and how many times does the noble,” she kisses him, “handsome,” he grins against her skin, “mighty, Dyson save the day?”

“That would depend on his beautiful,” kiss, “talented,” nip, “and generous wife.”

She slides away from him and toward the kitchen; he follows but a step behind.

“I was wondering,” she muses glancing over her shoulder, “what do you think about a daughter?”

His eyes warm, a smirk across his lips, “that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

~;~;~;~End Dream~;~;~;~

She sighed, remembering that last lingering kiss before she opened her eyes to reality. Idly she wondered what he was thinking, though somehow it was almost a relief not to know.

Suddenly, the door to her room is opened and he’s there, standing in the doorway. He strode forward, kicking the door closed behind him. Dyson then crouched beside the bed, his blue eyes trying to catch hers, before he reaching out and gently tilting her chin. His eyes—serious, but soft:  “Don’t deny it.”      


	7. Chapter 7

_Do we falter before the altar?_

“This isn’t real, Kenzi, this isn’t real,” she whispered to herself. She kept her eyes squeezed tight because while she knew this was just an illusion; it looked so **real**.

_Upon which we lay our eyes?_

She had no idea how long she’d been trapped in the under-Fae’s spell—or whatever they called it—but she was seriously starting to have issues. It was getting harder and harder to remind herself, “This isn’t real, Kenzi, this isn’t real.”

_For which we give our lives?_

“This is real, Kenzi, this is real,” the voice rasped from beyond her huddled form. What was once so rich and deep was now broken, hoarse, and ruined. A shudder ripped down her spine.

_Do we stand still before the storm?_

When they had warned her that this foe could ensnare her in illusions showing her things she feared most, she’d been sure she knew what she would see. But, she was wrong—oh, so wrong. This was worse—and she’d never have guessed. “This is real, Kenzi, this is real,” he told her.

_Upon those distant shores?_

“No, Dyson,” her voice trembled with tears, “no.” Even as her body betrayed her—eyes opening to see **oh, God** —she held desperately to her conviction.  Because this couldn’t be real, not **ever**.

_For the war, that was never ours?_

The stone altar, once pristine white, now stained red. His mangled form draped across it, a barely living sacrifice. His blue eyes met hers and the tears flowed fast once more. His chest rose and she could hear the wet rattle despite the distance. “No, Dyson,” she sobbed, “no.”

_‘Tis for this that we weep._

Then finally— **finally** —the nightmare dissolved. Her eyes met blue, and **thank God** , there was no blood. Then she rushed, flung her arms around him and hid her face in his neck to muffle her sobs. A great wrenching sound tore through her tiny frame. Responding he wrapped his arms around her and murmured, “I have you, Kenzi, I have you.”

_Yet, would you weep for me?_  


End file.
